


there's a ghost out on the water (i swear it has my face)

by orphan_account



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Reflection, Self-Reflection, takes place right before they jump into france
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: None of them can sit still. Not really. Not while they’re up in the air. But in the gullet of the plane, they’re still, stiller than the grave.





	there's a ghost out on the water (i swear it has my face)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you @ruinsrebuilt for the idea!
> 
> sorry for any typos.
> 
> title taken from "until the levee" by joy williams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of them can sit still. Not really. Not while they’re up in the air. But in the gullet of the plane, they’re still, stiller than the grave.

It’s like this: a different place lies below them. It’s not home, not anyplace they know. It’s not even remotely close to what it was before the war started. It’s a place that’s being ripped apart, shelling by shelling, body by body falling, blood spilt by blood.

Some of their heads are empty. That’s not unusual. It’s kind of being out of it; it’s being able to see out of your own eyes while existing outside of your body. They’re weighed down and strapped in, boots firmly on the ground, their guts sitting heavy in their skin, and it’s like they’re floating. Outside of a body, outside of the barrel of a gun, outside of an aircraft.

It’s like this: they are the bullets. The aircraft is the loaded gun. There’s a series of things going through them, images, possibilities. A misfire, a hit from behind, and, of course, exiting the chamber.

No hears the indistinct murmurings directed to God. No one looks at each other; they’re either staring straight ahead, twisting and turning to get a look out the window behind them, swallowing back blood—not their blood, though. Or maybe it is. Blood of the American, blood of that which cannot be undone.

It’s like this: Winters, Compton, and the others are keeping their men together.

No one’s shaking apart in their seat—and if they are, the turbulence is enough to hide that.

It’s like this: no one’s ready.

No person is born for this. They’ve been trained, molded, shaped into guns with stars and stripes tearing a path up their sleeves, but that isn’t the same.

It’s like this: after the jump, the relief of finding one member of Easy after another is palpable thing in the air that German artillery can’t touch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
